


Dreams of Fire

by MooseKababs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Low Key Psychology, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseKababs/pseuds/MooseKababs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>R o d i m u s always fixed him with a teary gaze when he woke like this, frame burning and the smell of energon seeping from his lines, and when he could recall his own designation and where he was he would scramble out of their berth, taking all those blankets he was knotted in right with him. Sometimes he was able to throw shaky excuses over his shoulder, and Magnus was past the point of trying to chase his Conjunx down, to stop him from fleeing. All he could do for Rodimus at this point was call ahead to Drift, to let him know to expect the smallest of the command trine, to let him know that Rodimus had dreamt of fire again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>//</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Drift + Rodi centric fic, mentions of Drift/Ratchet. Rodi has a panic attack, so watch out for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is probably going to have a really weak ending because, tbh, while all my writing is weak, my endings are the worst. ANYWAY ENJOY I GUESS, THANKS FOR BETA-ING @SpaceWeeb! :D

He woke up with a start; If he’d said something he didn’t catch what it was, but Magnus’ hands were on his face trying to steady him before he’d actually  _ woken up. _ Rodimus didn’t like to call what happened on these nights panic attacks because he wasn’t panicking. He felt perfectly safe knotted up in a mess of blankets he’d kicked off of himself during the night cycle and curled in his second-in-command’s arms. 

 

Except that, if you asked Magnus, there was no way he felt safe. Rodimus always fixed him with a teary gaze when he woke like this, frame burning and the smell of energon seeping from his lines, and when he could recall his own designation and where he was he would scramble out of their berth, taking all those blankets he was knotted in right with him. Sometimes he was able to throw shaky excuses over his shoulder, and Magnus was past the point of trying to chase his Conjunx down, to stop him from fleeing. All he could do for Rodimus at this point was call ahead to Drift, to let him know to expect the smallest of the command trine, to let him know that Rodimus had dreamt of fire again.

* * *

 

Rodimus would collapse into Drift’s arms in hysterics. Already the washracks in Drift’s habsuite would be running cold enough to quench the heat in his captain’s frame, and some nights the door to Drift’s berthroom would be closed when they passed which meant he’d intruded on one of Ratchet and Drift’s few coinciding nights off, only adding to the guilt that sat leaden in the distressed mech’s tanks. He and Drift would do the same age old shuffle into the washracks here that they’d done since they’d met one another and Drift had just been the right mech in the wrong place, and each drop would hit red plating and hiss away in steam for a while in an orchestra of ticks and pops. Drift would sit next to him, a silent tower of support, waiting until Rodimus was ready to talk, knowing when to start pushing for details. He would suffer the cold water until the steam stopped and Rodimus was no longer overheating, until he no longer reeked of fuel waiting to combust, and he would let Rodimus use the cold water to center himself some. 

 

He knew that’s what Rodimus did, because this was old hat; they would sit together huddled on the floor until Rodimus went from burning up to icy cold to the touch and water dripped down his frame steadily, and the younger mech’s sobs would equal out to shuddered vents with the occasional hiccup. This is how Rodimus lost himself, how he calmed down, found the empty-minded nowhere from which meditation began. Irony was hard at work the day that they’d found rain had calmed the flame embellished mech better than anything else. 

 

Before his Amica could begin to tremble for a reason beyond what he’d come to him for, Drift would rise to turn off the water and he’d first see to patting Rodimus dry with one of his plush black towels before he gave himself a cursory wipe down with the same one. They’d rise together quietly and Rodimus would sit and sniffle on Drift’s couch while the spectralist went around to acquire creature comforts, shoving a cube of coolant into the captain’s hands to sip while he lit incense and brought forward a tiny camera, settling it on it’s tripod across the room right in front of the vid screen before draping a blanket over Rodi’s shoulders, sitting down into the spot next to him and hugging a pillow to his chest, settling in to wait.

“What was this one about?” Drift pushes a few minutes more than a half hour later, when Rodi has already drained the coolant but brought the empty cube to his lips twice in a nervous gesture. It makes Rodimus’ throat constrict some, and he doesn’t really want to answer. His eyes are locked on a spot of the strange rug Drift’s put down, tracing and retracing the pattern he can see  next to his Amica’s pede. He finally gets up his courage to speak, arranging the thoughts of the dream in his head and blinking rapidly. He knows he has to get it out; he’s the one who’s asked for this, he’s the one who’s dragged Drift away from his  _ own  _ Conjunx and who’s made Rung’s job so difficult. 

 

“Fire,” He croaks out, “I dreamt about fire again.”

 

Drift is just watching him with an understanding smile, the same smile that he’d see if he’d go and sit down with Rung instead of waking up his best friend in the dead of the off-cycle to listen to him cry because he can’t find it in him to let the words out to anyone else, not even his own Conjunx. The low light plays off Drift’s armor in ways that make him more beautiful now than in the high lighting of the day cycle, and he lets his eyes wander over the strange familiar shape of his new upgrades, over the planes of his dark face and the faded, slightly smudged paint that adorned it. Drift was exotic, angelic, glowing even now in his drowsy dedication, and despite the stalling from his captain, the smile on his handsome face stayed firmly in place.

 

“It was,” He nearly swallows his own glossa as he begins again and he leans to deposit his empty cube on the low coffee table in front of the couch. He takes the pillow Drift offers him and holds it close to himself, huffing out a breath. “I-It was about, uh, Nyon.”

 

Drift nods as Rodi resettles himself and he thinks about things again. In the dream he’d just been watching from the hilltop again, watching his home burn. He could smell the processed energon being burned through rapidly, could feel the explosions shake the ground beneath his pedes and could hear the voices all screaming out in agony and anger and betrayal. He told Drift as much, hiding pale optics in a shaking hand, tugging the blanket closer to him and then moments later shrugging it off as he recalls more. 

 

“Optimus was there,” He admits, wiping at tears that had formed in the corners of his optics, “Optimus was yelling at me. Screaming at me. Telling me how there had been other options and-- and in the dream, there had been. There probably had been i-in real life, too.”

 

“Do you want to go back to the washrack?” Drift asks softly, reaching for one of Rodimus’ hands, and Rodi shakes his head and swallows thickly. He can do this. He’s never lost control so far, never ignited himself even when he felt like he was really being attacked, and he knows that if there’s any small dignity he can hold onto it’s the one where he doesn’t burn all of Drift’s stuff to a crisp. He sniffles and threads his fingers with Drift’s, leaning forward enough to tuck his own arms under his chassis and trap them there and rest his helm on the Swordsmech’s thigh.

 

“The survivors, I-- I know them all by name, I  _ knew them  _ all by name. Everyone in the Acroplex,” He explains, trying to ignore the tiny camera recording away as Drift pets over his helm lovingly, coaxing his fears away and the details out of him with a little hum to show that he understands, “They were there. They yelled too, screamed at me about making-- making bad decisions a-and, I turned on the little hill we all congregated on to watch the fires burn and looked at them and it was just, heh,” He pauses again, sighing deeply and closing his eyes. “Just Optimus looking at me holding one of my closer friends, and I couldn’t look away from him, and Swindle came up behind me then and just whispered in my audial about buying more charges and I-- I lost it.”

 

“What do you mean ‘You lost it’ Rodi? Did you attack him?”

 

“I-- No.” He admits. “I cried. I just collapsed and cried into the ground and-- they started laughing at me.”

 

“Laughing? Swindle and Optimus both?”

 

“And the bodies. Like I was so pathetic I--” He has to stop, his voice breaking, and take a few deep breaths to quash the growing burn in his lines. “Like it brought them back.  Everywhere I looked there was just someone laughing.. Even the big war-machines were laughing at me.”

 

“And then what, Rodi?” Drift asks after a few moments pass quietly between them.

 

“I woke up. Mags had me. I-- I came here.”

 

Drift thumbs over the back of his hand and even though his smile is gone his faceplates aren’t pitying and Rodimus has to remember to thank him later, give him more time off, cover his shifts for him. To make up for this whole mess of a night. 

 

“What do you think this dream means, Rodi?” Drift asks, and it’s one of the basic questions on a short list Rung gave him when the three came to this arrangement. Rodimus screws up his faceplates because this question is so much of Rung that it’s like he can see the little mech in the room, regarding the distressed captain with a patient gaze, and so he rolls over to show his spoiler to the camera. 

 

“We, Drift, We both know exactly what it means--” He begins as Drift pets down his helm again, and he curls around the pillow a little tighter. “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

 

“It’s now or in the morning, Rodi.”

 

“Wait til the morning, then.” He says stubbornly, and his spoiler shifts so subtly downward that he can’t feel it. Drift leans overtop of him to pick up the blanket he’d shrugged off and drape it over him again, patting him in an amiable way, and he huffs out a breath. Now that the brunt of his distress has been ejected rather forcefully out of his system he just feels  _ exhausted,  _ and he wants to go back to his bed and curl up with his lover and be told that everything is okay. That’s a whole other problem he has to deal with, too; This is well past the second dozen time so far this stellar cycle that he’d fled from their berthroom with no true explanation and no words for Magnus to eschew his fear. He fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

 

“I’m sorry, Drift.” Rodimus offers softly, and Drift shakes his head, his smile back in place. In the time it’s taken to get through his halting explanation, the incense has burnt down to nothing and a full Cycle has passed, and Rodimus had just about cried himself out. Now he was just fighting with the strain that came afterward, where his system called for him to cry more but he was just  _ unable  _ to, physically, and he marinated in his angst quietly.

 

“Rodi, never be sorry for coming to me. I’m your Amica.” Drift leans back some to look at Rodi’s faceplates, tilting them up to lock eyes with the smaller speedster. “I mean it Rodi. I don’t care what’s going on. I’m here for you.”

 

“But you and Ra-” Rodimus begins to protest, but Drift is quick to quiet him with a finger to his lips and a slow shake of his head. 

 

“I wouldn’t enjoy not being conscious in a berth next to another not conscious person. It’s the before and after we both get to enjoy Rodi. Not the sleep. Waking up to help you just means I get to look at him a little longer than he gets to look at me, which-- really, I mean, I should be  _ thanking you for. _ ”

 

Rodimus can’t help but laugh a little at the idea: Ratchet would never have thanked anyone for waking him up but here Drift was, beating the light out of a bad situation just for his Amica. Drift’s smile widens and he continues to pet rodi’s head for a moment longer. “How are you feeling, Rodi? Need to stay longer?”

 

After a long moment of thought Rodi rises on his arms and stretches, folding up the blanket lazily and setting the pillow aside to properly hug the swordsmech, and they stay like that for a few long minutes, Rodimus just listening to the sound of Drift’s venting and Drift petting lazy, languid circles over the planes of Rodimus’ spoiler. He’s stirred from some kind of strange half-sleep by the urge to vocalize when Drift wiggles his fingers into the transformational seams on his back, and he lets out a yelp and twists in the spectralist’s lap to get away when he crooks his fingers and  _ tickles him. _

 

“Dri- _ DRIFT--!”  _ Rodimus cries, biting on the inside of his lip and screwing up his face to stifle his snorting laughter, patting at Drift’s chestplates weakly,  “Drift _ driftdriftsTOP _ stop we’ll waKE UP RA _ tchet!” _

 

Drift seems to consider his words, squinting down at the once-prime and then glancing over his shoulder towards the door to his berthroom. It was a slag excuse and they both knew it because they both knew that Drift had soundproofed his berthroom after Rodi had shown up, frazzled, and demanded they either include him in their activities or keep it down. Rodimus was regarding him with the absolute most hopeful expression, though, and his bad mood seemed to have all but evaporated in the wake of his strategic tickles. So squinting at the captain once more, he withdrew his fingers.

 

“You’re getting off easy,  _ this time, _ Rodi.” Drift threatened with a growl that would have seemed threatening if he weren’t talking about tickling his captain. Rodi, wiping at tears that had formed in the corner of his optics from his friends ministrations grinned something beautiful and stunning and  _ genuine, _ chuckled at the spectralist’s joke, and rose on his knees to wind one arm around Drift’s neck and the other around his waist, hugging him tightly.

 

“Thanks, Drift.” He said quietly, still smiling into his Amica’s shoulder. Drift embraced him back with equal strength, patting him after a moment  and then rising, helping him to his feet. They shared a smile, the white mech helping his friend to the door and watching him go the short distance down the corridor to his own hab, waiting until he entered to meander back to his own berthroom.

* * *

 

Rodimus found Magnus awake and waiting for him again. This was…  _ new,  _ to say the least, because this had been going on longer than he and Magnus had been together and nobody had ever waited up for him. Even if this was close to the thirtieth time in total he’d walked in to find Magnus awake after he’d fled to find Drift, it still sat strangely with him to see someone waiting for him when he got home. And maybe that was the end of that thought-- maybe it wasn’t coming home from Drift’s comfort to find someone else waiting up, maybe it was just  _ coming back to someone  _ in general, but as he stood in the doorway and watched Magnus work the stylus in his hands in something of a nervous gesture, he didn’t quite know how to grab his attention.

 

“Um,” He couldn’t stop the not-word from leaving himself and as soon as it had, Magnus’ head had snapped up and he’d dropped his stylus. He wasn’t rushing, not really, not as much as he used to-- He  _ used  _ to run to Rodi and check him for injuries and call Ratchet before he’d even known if Rodimus was hurt. Now he just rose quickly and quietly and walked to his Conjunx’s side, cupping his chin in one hand and tilting his face up to try and catch his optic, but the smaller mech was nervous and avoided his gaze by measures. He smoothed his thumb over Rodimus’ cheek, and leaned down to press a kiss to the opposite one, letting the speedster bury his face in his chest plating and cling to him.

 

“Welcome back, Rodimus,” He said softly, rubbing small circles into the base of Rodi’s spoiler, “Are you ready to go back to berth? Or would you prefer to stay up?”

 

“Magnus, I-- I’m sorry, I owe you an apology, I--” Magnus could feel the little bumps to his thigh that meant that Rodimus was toying with his own hands between them, twisting his fingers and knotting them together, and he hushed his smaller bond gently, reaching for one of the hands carefully.

 

“Rodimus,” Magnus began, “You owe me nothing. I understand there are some things that you are not able to simply  _ tell me  _ just because we are bonded. I don’t mind it. As long as you are alright.”

 

Rodimus’ mouth worked uselessly and he felt more tears prick at his eyes as he looked at Magnus face and marveled at the honestly there, finally nodding his head and clinging to the larger mech once again, relaxing into the proximity of the once-enforcer. Magnus continued to pet the other gently, settling a hand low on his back after a while to nudge him gently. Rodimus looked up in confusion and was met with more of the same smile as Magnus guided him back to their berth and it was only then that he realized that he must had fallen asleep standing and holding his lover, because a chunk of time was missing from his chronometer. Embarrassment suffused him but as he was once more buried in the warm-yet-cool embrace of the Magnus Armor, he found it harder and harder to care.

 

“Good night, Rodimus,” Magnus murmured softly when they’d settled, pressing a kiss to the Captain’s crest in reverie, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“ G’Night, Magnus,” Came the speedster’s response. Soon he was in recharge again and Magnus was alone with his thoughts, Rodimus cradled in his arms as he willed his own sleep to come. Rodimus’ inability to turn to him didn’t hurt, but it was a near thing. Magnus was more afraid that the troubled mech would hurt  _ himself  _ for lack of getting the appropriate help, though. Resettling his unpinned arm over Rodimus he offlined his optics. For as much fear and uncertainty and Rodimus’ dreams brought the both of them, he was resolved to give Rodimus something certain again, something good. He would be there for Rodimus when it came time that the speedster was ready to open up to him and until then, he would be understanding of what Rodimus did to shed his panic. He would protect him and care for him and be what he needed, until Rodimus understood clearly that he had no plans of going anywhere. Magnus slipped offline with a hand over Rodimus’ Spark chamber, one thought buried in his mind resolutely. 

 

He would  _ make  _ Rodimus feel safe.


End file.
